


No Holy Cities

by Jemmly



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming of Age, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Origin Story, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6773803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemmly/pseuds/Jemmly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of all Les Amis de l'ABC; in the cafes of Paris, the streets of St Denis, and each other's beds.</p><p>The title is from Table Song by Katie Kuffel:</p><p>Brother you've been sluggin whiskey<br/>Fashioned all your crosses<br/>To numb your blood and body<br/>To withstand your split losses<br/>But you found no holy cities<br/>In the bottom of your glass<br/>And so you cry out Sion<br/>Please, make my last sips last</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pontem Sancti (or, How Grantaire And Enjolras Became Rivals)

** R **

 

It was bitterly cold by the Pont Charle de Gaulle, and the winter wind whipped off the Seine in a clammy spray. Grantaire could feel it take root in his bones.

 

He resented the cold almost as much as he resented his past self for landing him community service in November. As he washed away the obscenities and slurs graffitied on the underside of the bridge, though, he decided he couldn’t hate either of them as much as he hated the babyfaced, yammering blonde that he’d been partnered with.

Blondie hadn’t shut up since they’d started their task, and now he wouldn’t believe Grantaire’s arrest story. “You must be lying, is what I’m saying,”

“Oh?” Grantaire replied, “Oh I’m lying, am I? A liar as well as a crook, my mother will never get over the shame.” He slopped his mop from the bucket to the wall, scrubbing at the foul slogans with new vigour.

“You don’t _get_ community service for busking without a licence! It doesn’t happen! In the worst case scenario, you should get a fine and your instrument will be confiscated.” 

Grantaire scoffed. “Yeah, well, whoever told you that was a fucking liar too.” Was the most annoying thing about him the incessant interrogation, or the pompous tone it came with?

“No, listen, I study politics and law, and if they gave you community service for such a minor crime, then you can’t have had a fair trial!” Righteous fire seemed to burn behind Blondie’s eyes now, and he said, “You ought to _lodge a complaint_.” in the same tone as Grantaire might say, _we ought to fuck_.

“Brilliant idea. I’ll complain to the fucking police about being arrested, because they love that and definitely don’t get it all the time. They’ll probably apologise, buy me a new fucking violin, and send me on my fucking way.”

“Well, they at least ought to give you your own violin back.” 

The chatty little bastard wasn’t even working at this point. He was just leaning on his own mop, pondering the legal ramifications of Grantaire’s plight. He clearly had some kind of anti-authoritarian bent going on, so Grantaire almost relished being able to reply “that would be hard, since they broke it.”

This revelation of possible police brutality pumped new outrage into Blondie’s system. He went from the standard community service small-talk, to railing loudly against the failings of a corrupt judicial system, in the space of about thirty seconds. 

This would all be well and good, if he could just remember to channel some of his rage into mopping at the same time.

Grantaire couldn’t deny he was more interesting company than the usual crowd. He was definitely rather out of place here, partly just by virtue of personal hygiene. His face was clean shaven,angular but still boyish, and his long blonde hair was artfully tousled rather than the tangled fucking mess sprouting from Grantaire’s head. If he’d met any other handsome young man in ratty scrubs today, he’d have assumed they got here from underage drinking, or an inadvisable street fight. This one seemed about as dry as they come, though, and far too obsessed with the common law of Paris to make such a fuckup. 

“Oy, Blondie.” Grantaire cut across his ranting.

“…creates an institutional imbalance in the struct- what? You mean me?”

“Yeah, got a question.”

“My name isn’t 'Blondie'”

“Can’t remember your name.”

“It’s-“

“Listen, Lemonhair, I’m trying to guess what _you_ did to get arrested, but I’m stuck.”

“It was-“

“No no no, no telling me, just give me a clue. Was it something to do with you running that big mouth of yours?”

“I- I mean yes, I suppose, but-“

“No, nothing else, gotta think.”

The guy looked confused, which didn’t suit his pretty boy face as well as angry did, but at least he’d stopped talking. Grantaire wasn’t mopping either anymore, but walked around Blondie, sizing him up. 

He was dressed _entirely_ in red under his scrubs (even his shoes!) which probably wasn’t a clue to anything but a terrible sense of fashion. His hair was tied in a high ponytail. He had wristbands on both arms full of weird and obscure political slogans. A thought came to Grantaire just as Blondie’s patience ran out.

“My name is-“ 

Grantaire interrupted him with a faux-shocked gasp. “ _No…_ no, it can’t possibly be… you’re a Lycée unionist, aren’t you?”

Blondie gaped at him for a moment, enraged once more. “I am TWENTY ONE!” 

The Union Nationale Lycéenne was a huge coalition of high schoolers that regularly went on strike, and brought the French education system to a halt. When Grantaire had been a kid he (like most of his classmates) had gone along with the strikes just to get out of gym classes, but there was always a hard core of genuinely ideological weirdos. They’d been just as into talking about Institutions and Structures as this guy.

“You’re twenty one?” said Grantaire, voice dripping with mock disbelief, “because you look about-“

“I know how I look! _Shut up_!”  Grantaire could immediately tell he’d somehow gone too far. The fire in Blondie’s eyes turned cold. “My name is _Enjolras_ , and I’m _twenty one_ , and I got community service for vandalising the metro, ok! We are _done_ talking now.”

“Fine by me, Sunshine.” 

The blessed silence lasted for about five minutes of mediocre scrubbing. They had still only moved about two metres along the wall from where they’d started an hour ago. The other poor sods on cleaning duty had moved further down the bank, leaving them alone with their thoughts (and the dull roar of traffic overhead). 

Enjolras - as he was apparently, absurdly, called - eventually piped up;

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, almost sheepishly, “I’m just rather touchy, about the fact that I look quite young. And _anyway_ I had already _told_ you that I’m a student so _obviously_ I couldn’t be a Lycée Unionist anymore-”

Grantaire stopped him; “anymore? As in, you definitely did used to be one.” 

To his delight, Enjolras flushed a bright scarlet, to match his long undershirt. “Hah! Don’t even try to hide it!” Grantaire allowed himself a proper belly laugh at the other man’s expense, and was still grinning wildly when he declared “I was right, so _I win_.”

They had both stopped mopping now. This shit was never getting done, but their supervisor had buggered off to check on a different pair half an hour back, and had never reappeared. 

“What do you _win_?” said Enjolras, still red all over. 

“I don’t know, but you definitely owe me something for this. You call me a liar when I try to be up front with you, and then you try and tell me my own INCREDIBLE intuition is wrong? I win detective of the year, is what I win.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m still sure you didn’t tell me your whole story about how you got here. There has to be more to it than busking.”

“Well I’d love to hear the story of why _you_ vandalised the metro instead of doing your homework.”

He gave Grantaire a tiny smile, the first one yet. “You first.” Amused suited his elfin looks even better than angry did. 

Grantaire swung out his mop with a flourish and gave a Enjolras deep bow. “My lord, I shall regale you with an epic tale of woe, that puts all other community service sob-stories to shame.” With a heft he lifted up their dirty water bucket and sluiced the contents out onto the floor, to much shrieking, then turned it over and placed it down as a seat. “Please, get comfortable, it’s a wild ride.” 

Enjolras obliged, and sat on the bucket. “I can’t wait." He didn't even sound like he was joking.

Grantaire gave him a wink, before beginning;

 

“So my flatmate is a lunatic, right, we need to get that out of the way at the start. Constantly taking more drugs than he sells, which is a very bad way of doing business, as I’m sure you can imagine. Anyway, I wake up one day and I go into the shared room, and lo and behold, the freezer has gone. I run into his room. ‘Monty, my old chum, my old pal, where’s the fucking freezer gone?’ I ask. He’s curling his eyelashes. ‘oh, it’s you’, he says. ‘yes Montparnasse, it’s me’, I say, ‘because I fucking live here and the fucking freezer is gone’

“‘I sold it’, he says, and starts combing his hair. Apparently, he decided the way to deal with his debts was to start selling off appliances. When I suggest, in the politest of ways, that he could possibly have sold some of his designer suits instead, I get a swift punch to the testes. 

“Now, this would all be a normal Friday, except for the fact that I’d cooked all my meals for the fortnight on Thursday, then frozen them, on account of being a thrifty genius. Montparnasse, on account of being an utterly thoughtless _soulless_ arsehole, had got rid of the freezer _with the food still fucking in it_.

“So I have no food for the next two weeks basically, and no money neither. It’s dire straits! There’s no time to renew my busking licence! There’s no time to stake out a spot by the Notre Dame! I was really looking forward to that bolognese! Montparnasse disappears to god knows where for a few days, and I’m starving, so I dust off my violin, get on the metro and get off at Pont Neuf station. Plenty of tourists. I start playing my violin, get a few tips, all going nicely, when these three friends of mine show up. Now I love them, but sometimes I think they love me a bit too much, you know? Suddenly it’s all, ‘R, you’re so thin, are you eating properly?’, ‘R, when was the last time you took your medication?’, ‘R, do you want any help?’

“I tell them I don’t want any help, they don’t take no for an answer. One of the lovable idiots gives me a fifty euro tip. Then, out of nowhere, who would turn up but fucking Montparnasse, slick as ever, because apparently Pont Neuf is just the hottest place to be on a Friday night. He’s like ‘Grantaire, what are you doing here?’, so I say, ‘trying to earn enough to eat, you utter cunt’. He says ‘well clearly it’s going very well… and oh,’ he says, ‘don’t you owe me for rent?’ And guess what. He _takes the fucking fifty_ from my hat.”

 

Enjolras gave a very satisfying gasp at this point; “He didn’t!”

 

“He did! What he doesn’t know is that my friends are quite the over-protective bunch. Now, one of them is weedy as shit and one of them's the clumsiest bastard you ever met, but their girlfriend packs a mean punch. A little too mean, actually, and Monty goes flying and trips _off the fucking platform_.”

 

“Off the platform?!”

 

“I know! He could have died! People are screaming, I’m running to get him off the tracks, I manage to pull him up just in time to _save the bastard’s life_ , and he starts to beat me up! Friends try and pull him off, doesn’t work, a train has just arrived at the station, people are trying to get off, we’re rolling around on the floor, and then the police come crashing through the crowd, _stepping on_ _my fucking violin_ on the way. 

“They tear us apart, but Montparnasse is a slippery bastard and he doesn’t want to talk to the police any time soon, so he manages to scarper. I’m the only one left. My friends are yelling, trying to stick up for me, but I get arrested and taken in for aggravated assault. Since theres no victim to be found though, and I’m no snitch, I get community service for the only crime they can think of.”

 

“Busking without a licence?”

 

“Busking without a licence. Total bullshit.”

 

** Enjolras **

 

This Grantaire guy was an excellent storyteller. He used his whole body to re-enact the tale of his arrest, pairing his wild gesticulations with an impassioned tone that could easily befit Shakespearian tragedy. Enjolras wondered what he was like when he was performing.  

There was something a little crooked about his whole appearance. Like every bone had been broken at some point, and set just off the mark. He was almost ghostly pale, against a shock of tangled black hair that had been wrestled into a short braid. His eyes were deep brown and lidless, with the furrowed bags of an insomniac. A scratch of black stubble crusted over his face and neck. The scruffiness was charming though, in its own way, and his posture lent him the air of a natural jester. Enjolras had found the lopsided grin he’d been treated to a few times now particularly irresistible. He could see Grantaire being a very popular busker indeed. 

As he absorbed the story, a thought occurred to him. “Hold on, do your friends call you R?”

“They do indeed.”

“And your name is Grant - aire.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh that is _awful_ , a pun? Your name is a pun!”

“Awful? That’s the best thing about it!” 

Enjolras really wanted to criticise some other parts of the story, because from his point of view there were some outrageously poor decisions involved, but Grantaire seemed much happier than when Enjolras had been banging on at him before. The very tiny and underused part of his brain that dealt with Other People’s Feelings noted that most people prefer telling fun stories to being lectured on Parisian bylaws. 

This is why he usually communicated with others through the form of rousing political speeches. Amicable banter was largely beyond him.

Before he could put his foot in his mouth again, Grantaire said “go on then, what was the vandalism all about?”

“Oh. Right.” Enjolras stood up, and gestured to the bucket. Grantaire sat, with a wry smile.

Enjolras felt suddenly and unexpectedly awkward from the attention, without quite knowing why. He cleared his throat, and explained;

 

“I was organising a protest with my activism group, and we were making signs so we had a bunch of spray cans, and on the way home I wrote ‘fuck the 1%’ on the Louvre metro station in gold. The security guard was not very happy about this. He was also not happy about my explanation of anarcho-communist theory. He was also not happy that my flatmate, Courfeyrac, yelled ‘vive la revolution’ and slid down the escalator rail to escape from him. And he called the police.”

 

It didn’t quite paint a picture in the same way Grantaire’s story had, but he seemed raptly focused on Enjolras nevertheless. He was looking at him like you might look at a particularly strange bug you saw at the zoo. 

“I guess _les keufs_ were also not a fan of your theories, huh”

“Oh, I didn’t bother talking to them about it. They never listen.”

“Never? You do this a lot?”

Enjolras could feel himself flushing again. “Usually I get arrested for slightly more noble causes, I’ll admit. This wasn’t our finest hour. Most of our meetings happen at a bar, and in this case we were a little tipsy by the time we were going home.”

“Well, at least the punishment fit the crime.” Grantaire said, gesturing to the walls they had totally failed to clean. “Now you know how the poor cleaners of that metro must have felt.”

Enjolras gave a small chuckle, then frowned as he thought it through. “I’m sure they would have agreed with the sentiment, though.”

Grantaire cracked up again, “yeah, I’m sure they’d love it as much as the guards and the cops!”

Enjolras couldn’t help retorting, “but, unlike the mercenaries of the capitalist status quo, manual workers only stand to gain from attacks against the bourgeoisie!”

“Did you really just talk about the bourgeoisie? Did I really just hear that?”

“Don’t be facile, of course you did, that’s what it was about, wasn’t it?” His Other Peoples Feelings centre tried to stop that particular sentence coming out, but it was too late.

Grantaire still seemed to have a strange kind of smile, but the last traces of laughter had disappeared from his face. “To me it sounds like any other bunch of drunk idiots making life a little harder for those ‘manual workers’. You know most cleaners would rather have an easy day on the job than rail against the system, right?”

Enjolras no longer cared that he must have turned scarlet. Red was his favourite colour. It was the colour of passion, and if this Grantaire was going to cast aspersions on his group or their worth, then passion is what he was going to get. “Are you suggesting that people with more immediate concerns of survival haven’t the potential to look past them to their causes? Do you believe that no sacrifice should be required for worthwhile change? You know that Maslow’s hierarchy of needsmakes inherently classist assumptions-“

“And what do _you_ know about _need_?” Grantaire wasn’t smiling at all now. He stood up, their bucket and their fun forgotten, and the extra few inches of height he had on Enjolras suddenly loomed large. “You’re some rich student - yes I know you’re rich, don’t try to hide it, your metro station is the fucking Louvre - and community service is probably the only time you’ve ever worked your body in your life. And you didn’t even work hard!" He gesticulated madly at Enjolras' cleaning efforts. "We moved one metre along the wall today, and it was no thanks at all to you!”

“You don’t need to be a student to recognise society’s problems-”

“As far as I can tell, _you’re_ one of society’s problems!”

“My friend Feuilly left school at fourteen, and he-“

“What’s his job now? Hm?”

“He makes fans, and he-" 

“It’s not the fucking same! Working a craft, a trade, that’s not the same level of soulless as the jobs most people get by on.” Grantaire’s crooked face was bent almost into a snarl now, as the irritation he’d sensed earlier resurfaced with spitting force. If Enjolras’ tether stopped with his age, Grantaire’s seemed to stop with something Enjolras had just said - he tried to rewind the past few moments in his head, to remember why they had flowed from conversation to argument, but Grantaire was already beating on; “do you have any idea what minimum wage is actually like when you live in a city? You get no respect, no benefits - no pride in yourself as a human being - you can't afford to live in the places you clean or know the people you sell to. You know in Japan, with the bullet train, it was designed to be easily cleaned? And you can actually live off of doing that? You've seen the fucking metro, do you think anyone that designed it or runs it gives a shit about the people who clean it? And do you really think, at the end of the day, that those people would see you as any different than their _bourgeois_ -fucking-bosses? How can you possibly believe that your ideals would be worth more to them than the mess you're adding to their life?"

"I - okay, I know that - the method of communication is flawed, but a lot of what you're saying is - it's _exactly why activism is important_!" Enjolras nearly screamed.

"My god, why can't you just admit that you were wrong?" Grantaire flung his arms up in the air and stepped backwards. He'd been getting uncomfortably close. "Nobody wants you and your buddies' help! Nobody wants your shit," he rubbed his temples and sighed with a grin, clearly trying to calm down. "Jesus H. Christ, what a stupid hill to die on."

Enjolras felt so hot he didn't know what to do with himself. His whole body was clenched as if into a fist, and he knew he must look like one big radish. The worst thing was, that his cleaning partner had a point. He didn't usually get this angry when disagreeing with someone. He was only ever this angry with himself. This complete stranger had immediately caught on, and been repulsed by, his most shameful tendency; to assume everyone cared about his values more than their lives. His empathy was a grand, sweeping thing. Sometimes he thought he would break from the weight of humanity's sorrows - but he always forgot to pay attention to the people right in front of him.

Grantaire had been right, anyway. The punishment did fit the crime. Instead of telling him that, though, Enjolras just picked his mop up, went to fill up the bucket with water from the Seine, and got back to work.

 

** R **

 

Grantaire knew he had gone too far. He barely knew this guy, and he'd already dumped him with a bunch of his own personal issues and shitty half baked opinions, and clearly made him have some kind of weird, blushing breakdown.

Really though, he'd said 'don't be facile' right after using the word 'bourgeoisie' unironically. He had to be taken down a couple pegs.

At least, that's what Grantaire told himself so he could focus on finally cleaning the wall, and not on his unchecked anger issues or generalised self-loathing.

They passed the rest of their time in silence.

By the time their supervisor came back from his cigarette break or whatever the hell he'd been up to, they had actually managed to clean their assigned area. They went and got ticked off without looking at each other, returned their scrubs without looking at each other, and just as Grantaire was about to try and bridge the awkwardness before they left, Enjolras strode away in the direction of the Rue Boffon.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, lit a cigarette, and walked after him. 

After a block or so of walking around five metres apart, Enjolras turned. "Are you following me?" He honestly looked ready to physically fight.

"Non, enculé, I'm just going the same way. You really need to keep that ego in check."

He went the same violent shade of red he'd gone when he'd shut up before, and sped up his pace to put more distance between them.

Grantaire carried on too, and it wasn't long before he caught up, because Enjolras had stopped in the same lay-by where his friends had told him to wait. "I'm starting to think you're the one stalking me" he said, stubbing out the last of his cigarette on the floor. He didn't get a response, though the red face continued, painted onto the rather attractive expression of infuriation he'd been treated to earlier. "Whatever," Grantaire muttered, and pulled out his phone, punching in the numbers of his ride. 

Just as it was ringing, Enjolras turned to him. He'd just started to say "Look, I'm-" when Joly, Grantaire's most anxious and devoted friend, answered the phone by immediately screaming "WE'RE SO SORRY R!", and Enjolras went back to haughtily examining the paving stones. 

"You don't have to be that sorry, the whole thing overran anyway. When will you be here?"

"We got caught in traffic! We're all going to be there soon!"

"Musichetta too? I need to give her something." Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Enjolras turning back to him, like he'd started listening to the conversation. 

"Yes yes we're all here! I think we might have some trouble fitting everyone in the car actually - oh gosh Bossuet BE CAREFUL you're going to make Musi crash!" Grantaire heard a muffled "sorry!" and a "no he isn't, darling" from elsewhere in the car.

"What do you mean, 'trouble', Joly? There's plenty of room for the four of us."

Enjolras was definitely looking at him now, with great alarm etched across his face. Grantaire thought he saw him mouth the word 'why' to himself.

"Oh crap, yes, fuck, sorry, we found out earlier, we're picking somebody else up at the same time, is he there? He's blonde, probably dressed in red, his name is Enjolras?"

Time stood still. Grantaire slowly turned to face the man next to him. Despite their apparent differences, they both shared the same look of dismay. That is, until Grantaire started to laugh - uncontrollably, wildly - "R why are you laughing? Is he there?"

"Yup, he's here!" Enjolras' face was torture incarnate. It just made Grantaire laugh harder. He actually sat down on the curb, coughing and wheezing with renewed chuckles every time he looked up to see Enjolras' distress.

"Okay? Okay, well, you can tell me what's funny soon, we're FINALLY nearly there. See you in a sec!"

"Bye, Joly."

"Bye R!"

He hung up, his laughter eventually dying down to little occasional giggles. Enjolras' eyes were wide. "They were the three friends from your arrest story."

"Haha, yeah, I'm surprised you didn't recognise them straight away. How many other overly generous, overly worrisome ménages à trois, with a girl who'd punch a guy clear off a train platform, do you think there can be?"

"I've never met Musichetta, I just know her name. I didn't make the connection." He was clearly fretting. Grantaire tried not to laugh at him again.

"Well, I'm sure you'll get along like a house on fire, if that's any comfort." A tiny, metallic blue Fiat lurched round the corner at the end of the road. "Speak of the devil."

The car rolled into the lay by and braked with a screech. Bossuet was riding shotgun, dressed in one of the awful Hawaiian shirts that he always maintained were excusable when you were actually Hawaiian. He was rubbing his big bald head, apparently having hit it on something in transit. Musichetta (statuesque, unfairly gorgeous) reached across him to wave out to Grantaire with a dimpled smile. "Hey R! Sorry for the wait! Joly's been going spare, but it was his fault we left late in the first place-"

Joly had unbuckled himself and leapt out of the car. "Quick, get in! We aren't supposed to even be in this lane!"

Grantaire, as always when he saw the three together, filled up with a well of affection. "Hi Musi! Laigle is your head okay?"

"No time!" said Joly, dragging Grantaire by the coat with his wiry arms, and shoving him into the car. "We can catch up when we aren't illegally parked! Do you want to get us arrested too? You as well Enjolras, get in, get in!"

Enjolras, who had been standing off to the side, was shoved after him to sit in-between Grantaire and Joly, who slammed the door behind him. There was no middle seat, so Enjolras ended up sitting half on top of both of them. 

"Nobody gets arrested for picking people up from the curb, Joly" said Musichetta, pulling out with a smile. 

"They definitely get stopped for having extra, unbuckled people in the back seat, though." said Grantaire, who was pressed awkwardly between Enjolras and the car door. 

"Don't panic Joly any more, R." said Bossuet, in his deep, calming voice.

"Sorry, you know I don't mean it Jolllllly."

Joly snorted, and ran his hands through his already wild and windswept black hair. "Me? Panicking?" he said, taking a puff of his inhaler. Grantaire and Musi both laughed. 

"Enjolras," said Bossuet, "you're being pretty unusually quiet."

Grantaire felt Enjolras shifting on top of his left leg. His voice broke halfway through the word "sorry," and he cleared his throat before continuing. "I didn't realise you had to pick somebody else up. I could have got a cab."

"Well," Musichetta replied, keeping her eyes on the road, "originally it was just going to be me and Joly getting R, then Bossuet said he was meant to use the car to get you, because of course he _would_ forget about that until we were literally about to leave, and then Joly lost his hand sanitiser and we had to deal with that for about an hour-"

"It wasn't an hour!"

"-so we figured we'd just get you all together. I'm Musi, by the way. I'm sure the boys have told you many adoring stories about me."

"They have, actually. It's wonderful to finally meet you." Grantaire was struck, once again, by the complete earnestness of Enjolras' voice. He wondered if he'd ever been casually sarcastic in his life.

"Pleasure's all mine. I suppose you want dropping off at the Musain? Your meeting thing starts in an hour, right?"

The meeting. Of course. Grantaire was struck with revelation, and slapped his own forehead. Enjolras turned to him in alarm. "YOU'RE THAT GUY!" Grantaire exclaimed.

"What... what guy?" 

Joly started to giggle and Bossuet said "Yes, he's the guy alright."

"Which guy!? Who am I?" Enjolras was whipping his head between them, desperate to know the joke. Grantaire couldn't believe this was happening. 

"The fucking goddamn hero boy that leads that club they're always going to! The one who's always starting protests and getting beaten up! Fuck! I totally take back making fun of you for not realising when I was talking about these three, cause holy shit of _course_ you would be _that_ guy."

Everyone was laughing now, even Enjolras.

"We were wondering on the way over whether you would have spoken at the community service," said Bossuet, "we were hoping you'd get along."

They both, immediately, stopped laughing. 

Joly, blissfully unaware of the tension from his side of the car, said "I always wondered what it might be like if you two met. You're both so intense!"

Enjolras said "I suppose we are" at the same time as Grantaire retorted "Hey, I'm very chill!"

"Of course you are, R darling," Musichetta reassured him. She lacked Enjolras' gift for sincerity. 

"Are you two going to be at the meeting today?" Enjolras asked. His bony ankle was digging into Grantaire's leg. 

"I wanted to come as well, actually," Musichetta replied, "if that's okay with you? Joly said you only have three girls at the moment, which is honestly a travesty."

"We have to take Grantaire home though, Musi,"

"It's the same direction, we can drop him off then turn back pretty easily."

"But Musi-" Joly seemed to be getting agitated again, "what about Montparnasse?"

Worrying about Montparnasse, and Grantaire's general living situation, was one of Joly's favourite pastimes. He'd only visited their dank basement apartment once, and his hyperchondria had never permitted him to return. "Joly, you know I live with him all the time, right? It is not unusual or scary for him to be there. I don't need an escort for the occasion."

Bossuet turned in his seat to see Grantaire, and hit his head on the same inset ceiling light that must have caused his earlier injury. He really was the clumsiest bastard in the world. "You could always come with all of us, R?"

Grantaire felt Enjolras stiffen in place. It would almost be too cruel to follow the poor guy around to disagree with him more. He'd probably had enough of a bollocking for one day. "I'm really not scared of Monty, guys."

"Maybe you should be!" said Joly.

"Maybe he should be scared of us," Musichetta grumbled. 

Grantaire was just about to put his foot down, when Enjolras cleared his throat. "I don't know if you would like the meeting, anyway. It doesn't seem your kind of thing."

For some reason, the idea that this guy - as he had said earlier, this fucking goddamn hero boy - didn't want him to be there was all Grantaire needed to decide being a part of that meeting was now his life's ambition. He'd felt it in Enjolras from the start; an irresistible, terrifying idealism that just begged to be argued with. "Am I not _allowed_ to come to the meeting, Blondie?"

"Of course you're allowed," scoffed Joly, "and it's exactly R's kind of thing! You probably didn't realise while you were cleaning or whatever, but R is very passionate about all kinds of issues, Enj!"

"No I... I realised. It's just that we have a lot of planning to do at the moment."

"Would it be better if I didn't come either, then?" Musichetta asked.

"Oh no, no I'd love for you to come, it's just-"

"He thinks I'll spend the whole time hassling him," said Grantaire, taking pity on Enjolras' blood pressure. Bossuet squinted over at Grantaire in a familiar way - it was his 'what have you done this time?' face. Grantaire responded by looking as wide eyed and innocent as he possibly could. 

Joly entreated their leader apparent; "you have to let R come, Enjolras, he's our best friend! Apart from Musi. I promise his bullshit is all talk, he's really nice." Joly strained backwards so he could see Grantaire, who was treated to another classic look behind Enjolras' head; Joly's patented 'would you please just let us be nice to you?'.

"I think it's the talk that would be his problem, Joly. Don't worry, I don't need in on the club."

Enjolras was shifting uncomfortably between them, and the just the tips of his ears had gone red again, under his pearlescent curls. "It isn't a club, it's a general assembly, and I don't want to stop anybody coming. I'm not a dictator. I'm not even the chair."

Musichetta had clearly already decided for them, as she pulled away from the main road that lead to Grantaire's neughbourhood, instead taking them into the hotspot of bars and cafes next to the St Denis.

Grantaire considered his options. "They serve alcohol at this general assembly?"

Enjolras looked at him aghast, then regained his composure and nodded. 

 

"Alright. The Musain, is it?" Joly and Bossuet grinned at him as Musi turned to park. 

"I reckon I could handle taking a table at the back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this universe the Musain is in the same area as is suggested in the books, near Rue Rambuteau. Grantaire lives further north, in the Saint Denis banlieue.
> 
> This is the wall underneath the Pont Charle de Gaulle, where Enjolras and Grantaire were (supposed to be) cleaning: a397.idata.over-blog.com/3/18/39/72/Quais-et-Ports-de-Seine/Pont-Charles-de-Gaulle-1.jpg
> 
> You can find out more information about the activities of the Lycee Unionists here: www.wsws.org/en/articles/1999/09/fran-s30.html and here: www.unl-fr.org/  
> 


	2. Maria Purissima (or, Pontmercy The Ever Hopeful)

**M. Pontmercy**

 

Marius was a sorry sight on the street that day, complete with shaggy ginger hair caught up in a bun, tattered green coat with holes in the elbows, and a mournful expression.

Just opposite, the soggy student was being regarded by a man smoking under the umbrellas of a breakfast cafe. He seemed particularly amused by the giant and overstuffed suitcase that was bringing up the rear. Marius tried to ignore him. 

Just as one of the suitcase wheels got stuck in a gutter, the man called out across the street. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Marius frowned at him. He was tall and muscular, barely contained by a ghastly pink Hawaiian shirt, and completely bald despite his youthful face. “No, no I don’t think so.”

“Yes I do, your name is M. Pontmercy.”

Marius stopped struggling with the suitcase, now thoroughly perplexed. “How do you know that?”

The stranger stubbed out his cigarette, and crossed the road (without even looking both ways). Marius had been sleeping rough for about a month since getting kicked out of Grandpa Gillenormand’s house, and had lost the capacity to be concerned about this turn of events.

“For one thing, it’s written on your suitcase.”

“Oh, yes.” Marius had bedazzled it a couple of years ago, before travelling to Italy.

“For another, you were meant to be my roommate in first year.”

“Oh. Wow. You really remember that far back?”

“Something about your face is rather recognisable, monsieur. They had pictures of everyone stuck up in the dorm hallways. We all wondered why Pontmercy had never turned up.”

“Ah. Gosh. Do you still go to the Sorbonne-Assas?” That was the name of the international law school that Marius was, ostensibly, enrolled in. 

“Non, non. In your absence a couple of other friends occupied the room with me, and lets just say we found better things to do with our time.” The stranger smiled at a private joke. “I had the most fun before getting kicked out of law school, you cannot even imagine.”

“I suppose that makes me partially responsible,” Marius replied, glumly. “sorry.”

The man looked like this apology was the craziest thing he’d heard in his life. “What? Of course it doesn’t! I got kicked out because of my own disorganisation. Even if your absence did have a butterfly effect upon me, it lead to the only luck I have ever had in my life; meeting my partners.” He had a very reassuring voice. “Don’t worry about it, Pontmercy. Who wants to be a lawyer, anyway?”

Just then, another young man emerged from the cafe opposite, holding a paper sandwich bag and looking around in confusion. He was very handsome, but possibly the most oddly dressed human Marius had ever seen. He was wearing neon shutter shades, in the middle of the day. He was also wearing blue capri pants which were tight at the knees and absurdly baggy at the crotch, and one of those vests with the comically open arm holes (even though it had been raining for hours). Written across the vest in cyan was the franglais slogan ‘Turn Down Pourquoi?’

“Courfeyrac! I’m over here!” The first stranger waved hugely with both arms, even though it was a narrow street and he was only ten feet away.

“Bossuet? Who’s with you?” asked Courfeyrac, walking over. 

“This is Pontmercy. Sorry, I don’t know your first name.”

“It's Marius.”

Standing next to them, Courfeyrac tilted his head oddly, and looked Marius up and down, before giving him a shark-like smile. “Marius Pontmercy. Where are you from?”

The question was a lot harder to answer than he’d probably expected. Marius eventually stammered out, “Um. Nowhere, at the moment.”

“Huh.” said Courfeyrac, and, without even asking for clarification on what on earth that meant, he pushed his sandwich bag into Marius’ hands. “You hold this, and I’ll help you with that suitcase. We’re going to my place.”

“Oh, uh, I-“

Bossuet seemed to agree with whatever Courfeyrac was trying to accomplish, and clasped Marius’ shoulder; “I promise we aren’t thieves. We just have an altruistic streak. If we did steal from you, Sorbonne-Assass still has my address, so it would be a very short lived theft.” 

Courfeyrac’s tan, muscled arms hefted the suitcase up with ease. “Come on, man. Bossuet and I aren’t going to let you ruin that lovely hair in the rain any longer.” 

Marius laughed for what felt like (and probably was) the first time in months. “ _Lovely_ hair? Are you blind?”

Courfeyrac lowered his bright pink shutter shades down his nose, revealing cloudy pupils, almost fully obscured by cataracts. “Pretty much, yeah.” 

The bottom dropped out of Marius' stomach. 

Courfeyrac’s poker face didn’t last for long though, and after a moment he grinned again. “Sorry man, couldn’t resist.”

Bossuet sighed and shoved Courfeyrac’s shoulder, who impressively retained his balance despite the gargantuan suitcase now lumbering his right arm. “Don’t worry about this morceau de _merde_. He does that joke on everyone new he meets. That’s why he wears such garish clothes, as well. He’s just waiting for somebody to ask him if he got dressed in the dark.” Marius laughed again, thankfully. The shutter shades made _slightly_ more sense now. Grandpa Gillenormand had cataracts, and sudden changes of light were a peril to him. 

“You coming to my place then? I have a futon. And heated towels.”

“Really I should offer you my own, since it would correct the missed opportunity of our first year at law school,” said Bossuet, “but four’s a crowd.”

“Heated towels sound heavenly.” Marius replied, suddenly overwhelmed by hot tears of gratitude, for the unexpected kindness of strangers.

Courfeyrac whispered to Bossuet, “what’s he doing?”

“Crying.”

“Aww!”

 

**Courfeyrac**

 

From what Courfeyrac could see of Marius, he was a very exciting discovery. He tried to walk on his left on the way to the metro, because his sight was pretty good out of the corner of his right eye. His suspicions were confirmed, that Marius was:

  1. Adorable.
  2. Alarmingly disheveled.



The occasional sniffling and shivering was of particular concern. If they didn't get him a hot shower soon, poor kid could catch pnuemonia. 

As they walked, Bossuet struck up a conversation about how he met Joly and Musichetta, and Courfeyrac followed his lead. Of course, he was desperate to know more about how Bossuet knew this Marius Pontmercy, and why he was in such a state, but he trusted it would come in time. He didn't want to scare the poor guy; he sounded like he'd been through enough anxiety to last a lifetime. Courfeyrac asked if he could hold Marius' elbow as they got into the more crowded part of town. The fabric felt good quality, almost velvety, but tattered and full of small holes.

"Tell him about the pizza, Bossuet"

"Haha, yeah, so this was after me and Musichetta had hooked up at the bar, and she did like both of us, but she felt like she had to 'pick one'. Now, Joly had moved to my room - that is, your old room - because of his OCD. His first roommate was this guy, Grantaire, who's our best friend in the world now, but at the time was a bit... well, you'll probably meet him at some point, and you can imagine for yourself what it would be like to sleep in the same room as him."

"Is he dirty?" Marius asked.

"Oh no, not at all, his lifestyle is just a little unique. Do you want to get a coffee?" Bossuet stopped at a drinks truck parked outside the metro station. Courfeyrac didn't miss the way he'd glossed over Grantaire's particular brand of 'unique'. Personally, he'd only met Grantaire a couple of weeks ago - and the less said about his first time at the Musain, the better. He'd calmed down for the more recent meetings, but it seemed fairly obvious that the guy had some pretty major problems. Judging from the couple of times Grantaire had come up in conversation since then, Joly and Bossuet were in complete denial about this fact. Or at least, in front of everyone else, they were pretending to be.

Courfeyrac bought Marius' coffee, and paid for a new metro card to boot. He waved down Marius' protestations with his usual reply; "my dad is an evil banker, this is a redistribution of wealth."

As he pressed the card into his hand, he heard Marius mumble "I bet you anything I've met far worse."

Whatever he was referring to, his voice was enough to break Courfeyrac's loving heart.

They managed to struggle the suitcase through the barriers and onto the Louvre line, standing in a cramped huddle by the carriage doors, and Bossuet finished his story.

"So this one night, we're drinking before going out, and I suppose Grantaire got more drunk than the rest of us because he passed out, sprawled across my bed. We tucked him in, checked he was breathing, the usual, and decide a bar doesn't sound so fun after all. We order pizza instead. Now, you wouldn't know this, since you weren't at the orientation for our block, and neither did Joly because he technically wasn't supposed to be living there, but theres an back car park through the fire escape right by our door. Joly thinks that to get a pizza delivered, you'd have to go all the way to the campus entrance. Joly knows that I liked Musichetta and that we'd had a brief encounter recently, but he really liked her too. So Musi and he are very tipsy, and they're cuddled up on the same bed, and they think I'll be gone for at least ten minutes. When it actually takes me about thirty seconds."

"This is my favourite part." said Courfeyrac, tearing into his cheese baguette.

Marius chuckled, "for some reason, that already doesn't surprise me about you." 

"I walk in on them... I won't go into details, but they are making out in a fairly intense sense. And they leap apart, and it's just silent for a few seconds. My mind was going in a million different directions, I didn't know what to do! And then, Grantaire does the biggest snore you've heard in your life. Truly, it was _tremendous_ , and what could have been the worst argument me and Joly have ever had, suddenly turns into the funniest thing to happen in history. We all start laughing, and we literally can't stop. We didn't even talk about it for the rest of the night, we just ate the pizza and Musi went home like usual."

"And then you and Joly shared his bed that night, to kiss and make up," Courfeyrac interrupted with a smirk, nudging Marius in the ribs.

"Who told you - Musi told you that, didn't she? We should never have introduced you two. I apologise, Marius, for Courf,"

"Um, that's, that's fine, w-what's the end of the story?" Courfeyrac couldn't see whether Marius was flushed with embarrassment, but the stammering gave him a clue.

"Oh, we talked about it the next day, sans Grantaire snoring-"

"-and in the middle of an afterglow,"

"Courfeyrac! Anyway, we talked about it and it seemed silly for anyone to have to 'choose' one of the other, and leave somebody doubly heartbroken. And we've been happy together ever since."

"Wow," said Marius, "I guess it was a good thing I suspended my studies after all."

Courfeyrac heard the ding of arrival, and a muffled tannoy announcement. He gave Marius' elbow a little tug. "This is my stop."

Bossuet gave their new friend one of his smothering bear hugs. "Good to finally meet you, M. Pontmercy. I'm sure whatever's going on with you, some time spent in the company of this _encule_ will make those troubles pale in comparison."

"Are you not coming?"

"Non, mon amis, I just got a text from my friend R - uh, that's my friend Grantaire. He just needs help with something." Again, in an overly casual tone. Courfeyrac liked to see himself as the harmoniser of their group. If Grantaire was going to be sticking around, he needed to get to the bottom of what was going on.

"Goddbye, Bossuet - Laigle, was it? Thank you." There was a tremor in Marius' voice. Bossuet ruffled Courfeyrac's hair, and then they were pushed out of the doors by the crowd. He could hear the click of tourist cameras, and the bustle of the station, and smell cigarette smoke and harsh chemical detergents. Looping his arm through the crook of Marius' elbow, he lead him through a fog of moving figures, up to the light.

 

**M. Pontmercy**

 

As they walked up a broken escalator shaft with Courfeyrac babbling away ("They still haven't fixed it, still! It's been months!"), Marius considered the extraordinary luck of the situation. The thought to count the last month, spent getting kicked out of hostels and sleeping under bridges, as a misfortune did not occur. All that mattered was that it had ended in the company of kindness. Marius was a deeply trusting person who, for some reason, had never been loved by anyone worth trusting. The heart was ever hopeful, though. Maybe this time. Maybe these friends.

"I wonder what that tarp is for?" It was covering a large swathe of the wall at the top of the escalator. Courfeyrac found this question very funny. 

"I don't want to put you off meeting my friends, so I can't say."

"Oh. Wait, what? What happened?"

"Okay, one of them - he lives in the flat above me, actually - may have defaced public property. For a good cause though, of course! Well, I say _he_ did it, he's usually the smart one; I _may_ have encouraged him a little."

Marius' eyes were wide with shock as they reached the top of the escalator. "How did you escape?"

"Well Enjolras technically didn't. _I_ slid down this," he said, patting the wide metal rail between the up and down escalators. 

"But... how? Because you- sorry, I meant with your... sorry! That's so rude, oh my gosh," Marius felt like dying on the spot, but Courfeyrac just laughed again and yanked them left down the street, wheeled suitcase in tow. 

"I can't see well enough to drive, but I got seventy percent sight. I can do some cool tricks now and than. I'm a menace on the dancefloor though, seriously, if you want to be anywhere near me in the club then you gotta hold my hands and dance with me, or someone's gonna lose a tooth."

"Huh." 

The road they ended up on, after a couple of twists and turns that must have been ingrained in Courfeyrac's muscle memory, was beautiful. The houses didn't have the gaudy adornments of Grandpa Gillenormand's mansion, but Marius couldn't bear to think of that place anymore, and any change of scenery felt like a blessing.

It had stopped raining, and the slick wet streets sparkled with cold sunlight. A gentle breeze rustled through bare winter trees, each girded by a small iron railing. The houses were terraced, tall and pearly white, with curlicues and miniature balconies everywhere. It was the Paris of picture books.

"This is me," said Courfeyrac, turning in to number fourteen, and rummaging in his pockets for his keys. "I'm on the second floor, so you're gonna have to help me with this suitcase."

They heaved it up a narrow and winding staircase, before falling into a bright, airy apartment. 

Courfeyrac's home seemed sparse, until you realised that everything was just more compact than usual. Every appliance had at least two functions, and usually a hidden storage unit as well. It was completely open plan, besides a door that presumably lead to the bed and bathroom, and almost floodlit by the south facing windows. Every wall was painted a different colour, and what furniture he had also came completely mismatched. 

"Could you shut the curtains?" Courfeyrac asked. Marius leapt to oblige, and he closed his eyes, before switching the main lights on and removing his sunglasses. After a moment, he slowly opened his eyes, and blinked several times. "Much better."

Marius almost did something awful, like ask if he needed any help getting around, but it was like Courfeyrac had a special sense for when someone was about to ruin a social situation. "I have to go to the loo - that's the futon over there, if you want to try and unfold it." He walked off through the door, and Marius took several deep and calming breaths. 

Everything was going to be fine. Even if Courfeyrac was a murderer, it would be better to get murdered here than on the freezing streets. Just as the calming breaths were really starting to work, and the futon seemed like it might give in and open already,  Marius felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"You're not Courfeyrac."

"AaaAARGH!" 

On turning (and screaming wildly), the source of the voice seemed to be a small and angry god.

He stood ramrod straight, but still nearly a head shorter than gangly Marius. Everything on his face seemed perfectly proportioned and perfectly sloped, surrounded by a large halo of blonde curls which seemed to glow under the low, warm lighting. He also really didn't seem to be in the mood to meet people who weren't Courfeyrac.

"Where is Courfeyrac?"

The man of the hour reappeared just in time. "Hey hey, Enjy, how's things?"

Apparently satisfied by this, the blonde young man relaxed his face a fraction. "Hello Courf. I wasn't aware you were..." he squinted back at Marius, head cocked to one side, "busy?"

"This is Marius Pontmercy. He's sleeping on my futon tonight. The invitation is open indefinitely, though." Courfeyrac walked over to the futon, and tugged at a little knob Marius hadn't even noticed. It transformed from chair to bed in an instant.

"Thank you."

"Enjolras is not so hot with the everyday social skills, so I'll say he's happy to meet you on his behalf."

No part of Enjolras' composure broke at the jab. He was like the marble sculptures Marius had seen in Rome.

"Courf, I wanted to talk about something privately."

"Well, I'm kind of busy, man. Can't you talk to Combeferre?"

"Yes. I want to talk to both of you. We can go downstairs to Combeferre's."

"I'm not gonna just, immediately abandon my guest. Get Jehan from the basement if you want a second opinion."

"Good idea. Let's all go to the basement apartment."

"Enjolras!"

Marius intervened; "it's fine, Courfeyrac, really! I haven't had a hot shower in a month, I could do that while you chat!"

Courfeyrac threw his arms in the air. "Fine. Go get them and we can talk in here, while I make Marius something to eat."

"I'm also hungry."

"Yes yes, fine, I'll make your weird cheese on toast thing too. The bathroom is through the bedroom over there," he said, waving his arm in the general direction before going over to the kitchen island and opening a set of concealed drawers from within.

"Thank you, thank you so much." Courfeyrac flashed a sunny smile, and Marius shrugged the broken coat off onto the futon, before going through Courfeyrac's room. It was just as eclectically coloured as the rest of the apartment, but somewhat more muted. The bathroom was a dream come true. _There really was a heated towel rack._

Marius stripped down, and just stood under the pounding, steaming water of the power shower. It was like being reborn, to become clean after all this time. The soap had lemon peel inside. The shampoo smelt like lilacs.

After spending as long as possibly being numbed by the waterfall, Marius stepped out, pruny fingered and wrapped in a big fluffy towel, with a still-grimy t-shirt over the top. 

Stupidly, the suitcase was still by the door.

With the noise of the shower over, Enjolras' voice could clearly be heard throughout the apartment. "I just don't know what to do with him. He clearly cares about the issues, but as soon as he realises that _I_ care about something, he has to make fun of it!"

Marius shuffled awkwardly into view from the bedroom, but didn't make it to the suitcase before Courfeyrac yelled out "Marius! Come and meet some of my best friends."

A man sitting on a bar stool by the kitchen island said "some of?" in an amused tone. He was tall and dark skinned, with close cropped hair and (there wasn't any other way to put it), truly _phenomenal_ cheekbones. He wore wiry spectacles and a smart shirt, with a black jumper layered over the top. A brown walking cane rested between his knees. "I'm Combeferre. I'm sure it will be lovely to have you with us."

"And this is Jehan. They're the poet we keep in the basement."

Jehan gave Marius a little finger wave. Enjolras cut in; "they use they/them pronouns" and looked at Marius as though daring, or just expecting, an argument to start about this. Marius was a little confused, but Enjolras' expression was an excellent encouragement to google more about this phenomenon later, rather than bother Jehan about it now. They were a soft featured Indian with a red bindi between wide, kind eyes. They dressed almost utterly opposite to Combeferre, in flowing, loose fabrics of green and gold.

"Hello Combeferre. Hello Jehan. Hello again, Enjolras." The former two smiled at him. The latter just glumly tore a bite out of some herby-looking cheese on toast.

"We were just talking about our club," said Jehan, sipping at a large cup of tea.

"It's not a club! It's a general assembly!"

"Yes, Enjolras, now eat your toast. Marius, there's food here."  Courfeyrac stood so that a space was free at the kitchen island, and Marius consumed the scrambled eggs at an embarrassing velocity. 

Enjolras huffed out a sigh, burying his face in his hands. "He hates me." Marius was too happy about food to wonder who he was talking about.

Combeferre reached across the table to pat Enjolras' shoulder. "He's gotten better over the past few weeks. I think he just found the concept a little absurd, at first; you must remember he's coming from a very different background to us. When you really listen to what he's saying, there's a lot of ideas that could make the meetings far more widely appealing." 

"What do you do at your meetings?" Marius butted in.

Jehan giggled, "apparently, we drive Enjolras slowly insane."

Courfeyrac, who had been busying himself cleaning up frying pans, turned around with glee in his eyes. "You should come, Marius! There's one tomorrow!"

"Oh, uh, if that's okay? With Enjolras?"

Enjolras corrected, "I'm not in charge, Combeferre is the chair," without even looking up.

"Just like Pericles wasn't in charge of Athens" mused Combeferre. Apparently Enjolras understood this obscure reference, and it struck a nerve, because he glowered across the table.

"Can I? Come, I mean, Combeferre?"

Courfeyrac answered for him. "Of course you can come! Everyone is welcome at the Musain." Enjolras and Combeferre both nodded, so clearly it was law.

Jehan changed the subject to a poetry slam they were going to read at, and Courfeyrac put the kettle on to make more tea. It was a world away from the street, and the life, of just a few hours ago. They spoke idly to one another about this or that poem, and Courfeyrac's awful shirt, and Combeferre's new glasses.

The friendly chatter of the group washed through the frightened corners of Marius' mind,  until it was filled with nothing but comfort, warm light, and the smell of cheese on toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After writing this, much like Courfeyrac, I really just wanted to bundle Marius in my arms and protect him from everything in the world. 
> 
> This is the front of the Sorbonne Pantheon-Assass campus: http://bit.ly/1WWEdXV  
> Enjolras and Combeferre still attend there for International Politics and Law.  
> Joly and Grantaire went to different universities in the Assass group, and originally roomed together in private accommodation. More on that backstory later, I'm sure.
> 
> The next chapter will be called:  
> Gaudia Certamnis (or, A Meeting Falls To Disarray)


End file.
